Bad Rep (Bad Rep, #1)(20)

I yanked my tray off of the bar, my annoyance obvious.  “Hey, Mays,” Jordan yelled from behind me.  I grudgingly turned back around, my back straight and my face blank.

“Yeah?”

Jordan cocked his head to the side, his eyes burning into mine.  “Jaz may be pretty, but you're f*cking gorgeous,” he called out loud enough for me to hear over the thumping base of the band.  He grinned at me and then he freaking winked.  I hated and loved it when he did that.

I couldn't help but blush at his flirting.  We held searing hot eye contact for what seemed like an eternity until someone called out Jordan's name and he turned away from me.  Damn, he was going to be the death of me!  How the hell was I going to stay disinterested and unaffected by him when he said shit like that?  The obnoxious thing was he knew he got to me.  Just like he knew he got to every girl he came into contact with.  I hated like hell that I was just another chick in a long line of flirtations.  It hurt and it sucked that it hurt.

I had to rein in the anger that reared up.  I painted a happy smile on my face as I continued to tend to my tables.  Things stayed steady while Devil's Stone played.  I was able to forget about Jordan Levitt and his endless mind f*cks as I was lost in the Barton madness.  And I was relieved when the band finished around 10:30.  The lead singer's screaming was driving me nuts!

Fifteen minutes to 11, there was a ripple in the atmosphere.  A noticeable elevation in mood around the restaurant as a group of three guys came in the front door, rolling amps and guitar cases.  Tables had been moved back in the large dining area to create a make shift stage.

Jordan hopped over the bar and went up to the three guys, giving them a fist bump, guy hug thing.  These must be the other members of Generation Rejects.  I watched Jordan interact his band mates and could see the easy comradery between them.

Jaz stopped and saw what I was staring at.  “The guy with the tattoo covering his head is Mitch.  He moved to Bakersville a few years back.  The guy with the long blond hair and guitar case is Garrett, he's a townie.  Then there's Cole.  He's the lead singer, though Jordan sings sometimes too.   Cole is a bit of jack ass.  He plays the whole lead singer thing up a bit.  But they're all cool,” Jaz told me.

The guys started hooking up their amps and began sound testing the equipment.  There was a buzz of anticipation as people started crowding around the band.  I handed my last two tables their checks.  The kitchen closed at 11:00, so the crowd started clambering around the bar for drinks.  Lyla was slammed, as she was the only one left with Jordan now out front.   Jaz, Damien and I made our way to the bar to wait for the show.

Around 11:15, Jordan sat down at his drum kit and did a quick run.  I couldn't help but be impressed by his obvious talent.  Moore had come out from the back and grabbed himself a beer.  Cole took the mic and turned it on, a squeal from the amp cutting through the noise of the restaurant.  Everyone got quiet as the guys took their spots.

“Thanks to everyone who has come out to see us tonight.  My name is Cole and we're Generation Rejects.”  And with that they launched into a metal version of the Rolling Stones' Gimme Shelter.  I watched riveted as Jordan beat the hell out of his kit, sweat already dripping down his face.  Cole's voice was almost a scream as he sang about war being a shot away.

The crowd soaked it up.  Girls had jumped up and started dancing to the music, yelling out the names of the guys playing for them.  I had been to a fair number of live shows, but this was awesome.  The vibe was intense and the band played like their lives depended on it.

And Jordan was...well, he was the sun in the middle of it all.  It was impossible to ignore his presence behind the drums.  Even though Cole was technically the lead singer, it was Jordan's voice that I focused on as it melded with the music.  He was flipping fantastic.

They played three more covers, choosing obvious crowd-pleasers.  Everyone ate it up.  Jaz and Damien joined the dancing fans but I chose to stay in my seat, enjoying the view uninterrupted by swaying girls in halter tops and too tight dresses.

After they finished a rowdy version of Bob Dylan's Rainy Day Women, the music came to a sudden halt.  Cole held the mic between loose fingers and swayed his hips as he peered into the crowd.  “I'd like to introduce you to the rest of my mates.  On bass, Mitch!”  The crowd cheered.  “And my man Garrett on lead guitar!”  The crowd continued to roar.  “And on the skins, the f*cking bandit, Jordan!”

The sound was deafening. I could hear “I love you's” and “Marry me's” interwoven together in the chaos.

“This next song is one of ours.  Written by our own lyrical genius, The Piper, Jordan Levitt!  I hope you like it,” Cole yelled into the mic.  The Piper?  Then without any further preamble, Jordan began to pound out an intense beat.  His body heaved with the wave of music that poured out of him.  The guitar picked up and then the bass, mixing together in an intoxicating blend of sex and love and pain.

Then to my surprise, Jordan began a raspy hum that made my nipples harden.  My panties had become instantly wet, I was so turned on.  His voice was unbelievable.  The noises he made were erotic.  I watched his rippling forearm muscles as they beat against the skins in an almost violent passion.  The sexy claustrophobic press of bodies and heat of the room caused sweat to drip between my breasts.  The noises, the hot, suffocating pressure in the air aroused me in a way I didn't think was possible.  And all I could imagine was Jordan making that same low rumble as he pounded into me.